Eye of the Storm
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: She straightened up, turned, stumbled in shock. Her heart stopped. The scar on his cheek, the solemn eyes with those beautiful lashes, long nose and broad shoulders, the slightly hunched way he stood to make himself seem less imposing… The Beast Forever rises, and Dorothy must return to Oz.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N.** : I'm not the only one who fell in love with Oliver Jackson-Cohen in _Haunting of Hill House_ and voraciously consumed _Emerald City_ because he's in it?

You never get a concrete answer on Dorothy's parentage, so that's going to be explored in this fic - Glinda's comment that 'only a witch can kill another witch', re Dorothy had to be a witch to be able to kill East… I did think some of the plots were a bit superfluous to the rest of the story, like the Princess of Ev etc.; there would've been plenty of tension between Jane and the Wizard if she'd been working in Emerald City, and they could've still done the Jack story-arc as the Tin Man…

Also, _Lucas_ … The finale cliff-hanger was just rude.

* * *

 **Eye of the Storm**

 _01_

* * *

"…No, I didn't think so…" she smiled sadly to herself, scratching the dog's ears. He must've gotten loose from the…from the police cruiser. Sucked up into a twister and spit out, maybe he'd had the same luck she had, able to stand up and dust themselves off with a few bruises and minor scratches. It had been barely ten minutes since the eye touched down and she was sucked inside the wind-tunnel and woke up amid the wreckage.

Her mind had overwritten what happened to her in that tornado with a fairy-tale story of amnesiac swordsmen, lunatic dictators, drug-addled witches, a child struggling to find their identity, a haunting prison of mirror-eyed women and flayed men, and oppression… Science versus magic. Her mind receding into itself to protect her from reality, her nonsensical adventures, her yearning to belong, for answers, for _home_ , protecting her from something even worse that her mind wouldn't recover from. Science _and_ magic. A fugue state. To help her mind recover from trauma there was no coming back from, her mind rewired itself briefly, inventing something to replace it.

Oz.

The odyssey her mind had sent her on through Oz, unbelievable as it seemed, had stuck with her, unable to shake the total… _reality_ of her memories, as if she really had journeyed to another land. She still couldn't shake the memory of snow, as if she had just walked inside from a winter's day into the house crackling with a fire in the hearth; she could still taste the humble seeded bread from Nimbo; felt the ache in her bones from West's torments, her belly pooling like Jell-O; _Pink Floyd_ playing in Emerald City's palace; Silvie, unable to meet her eye, as she made her choice, the choice Dorothy never would have believed she would make. She had thought they had bonded…

She closed her eyes, dizziness sweeping through her for a second as she remembered… Lucas.

How could this be Toto, anyway?

He had been hurt, protecting her from Lucas - or Roan - or whoever he thought he was. Whoever her mind had imagined he truly was, if he had ever been anyone at all.

If she'd been a Psych student she would have paid serious consideration to what her subconscious was telling her - about Karen and Jane, about Silvie…about Lucas.

She wondered what would have happened, in her dream, if they'd stayed in that quaint little house, just the four of them. One soldier, the woman allowing herself to love him, the little girl they chose to call their own, and their loyal guard-dog.

But she had headed straight for the door at the first opportunity, the way she always had, regardless of who was depending on her. Even in the recesses of her mind, she didn't give herself any breaks. Lucas and Silvie - or Roan and Silvie, whoever they were… A man she could never bear to give herself to wholly for fear of abandonment, and the children who would never be because of her dread of it.

She stroked the dog's ears. The K9 unit had to be missing him. She sighed to herself, realising…hadn't Toto been hurt, anyways? Protecting her? He had run into the woods, and no amount of calling or searching brought him back to her.

With no alternative, she had left him behind, too.

Maybe she hadn't needed a guard-dog anymore; with those gauntlets she had been more than capable enough of looking after herself. But then, hadn't she always? Resourceful, tough, loyal, kind, hard-working…words that had followed her throughout her life to describe her, from her playground days to her last talk with her supervisor at the hospital.

She'd call herself isolated.

Even the characters she created to cope with her trauma had abandoned her.

And that wasn't her fault. People had a right to choose. Karen, Jane…whether it had been either of them, or another woman, her mother had had the right to choose to give her up in the hopes of giving her a better life… She was grateful Em and Henry had been worlds _more_ than some fantastical witch all in white, without a flicker or warmth or compassion or selflessness in her body…

Roan's wife.

Her stomach hurt, her insides cramped, and the sun glared into her eyes, making them smart.

She scoffed softly to herself. Hurt by her own imagination! Maybe Em was right; maybe she did need some time off before she went back to work. She had been sucked into a tornado, after all. And she couldn't go back to the hospital without getting her head screwed on straight; she'd be no help to anyone.

Dorothy supposed she could take the dog back to the precinct when she made her statement about Karen Chapman's attack.

The Wizard told her he'd sent men to kill her. And yet that had all happened in a dream; who had attacked Karen? She knew she hadn't imagined that cop pulling his gun on _her_ before the eye touched down. She lay struggling in the ICU with a punctured lung, hooked up to transfusions and IV drips. Someone had attacked her, and only the tornado had saved her life - ironic as that was.

"How's that for irony?" she murmured to the dog - not Toto. Just a dog. Her Toto had run away into the wilderness of her imagination, entangled with Lucas and Silvie and the yearning for another life she wished she could forget.

She straightened up, turned, stumbled in shock.

Her heart stopped.

The scar on his cheek, the solemn eyes with those beautiful lashes, long nose and broad shoulders, the slightly hunched way he stood to make himself seem less imposing…

She took a half-step back, her heart in her mouth, thundering blood through her body, with the hypersensitivity to his nearness and the memory of those firm lips…the weight of him as she stabbed him, those large talented hands - so instinctual about killing, so tender and patient while making love - wrapped around her throat. She felt the lingering burn of them on her skin.

"I'm just dreaming," she murmured, trying to convince herself. Just dreaming. He was exactly as she remembered, scarred and wounded but conflicted and earnest and goose-bumps rose on her arms as she stumbled back.

The cop had been confused, raising his gun at her in the chaos of the storm; Aunt Em's hands were discoloured from cracking walnuts, not drinking opium tea; the dog had survived the tornado the same way she had, inside that car.

Lucas wasn't real.

Maybe she had slipped away again…one adventure had ended, maybe her mind had made up another… That had to be it: One adventure ended, her mind, perhaps comatose, had created another to keep herself entertained, locked inside her own body…

Everything she had told herself, walking through the snow in Oz, she now repeated, as Lucas, or Roan, stared sadly down at her, looking as exhausted and lonely as she rarely admitted to herself she was.

Was she so desperate for the bond she had created inside her own mind that she had dredged him out of her subconscious, planting him here in the middle of a barren Kansas crop-field, to torment herself? A reminder of everything she wanted, everything she was afraid of, everything she had yearned for and had run from?

"It's just a dream," she whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on Lucas as the wind stung her eyes and she stumbled backwards over the uneven earth, the dog startling her as it bumped against her leg, warmth searing through her jeans. "It's just a dream."

Those long eyelashes fluttered, firm lips twitching toward one of Lucas' heartbreakingly earnest smiles. Lucas… _Lucas is dead_ , she reminded herself. She had strung up his body at the safe-house, their safe-house, where for a few hours they had stolen the idea that they were a tiny family, whole, and happy. The safe-house where he had betrayed that last memory she had of them together.

"Dorothy," he said softly, his lips lifting into a smile; she saw a flash of white teeth and didn't dare let herself notice his rare, pretty smile. _Just a dream_ … He had to be. He reached for her, and she jerked away, her eyes flitting from his hand to his face, trying to read his intent. But even as an amnesiac he had been good about hiding what was going on behind those gorgeous eyes.

Her fear of him made him stop: She wondered how he could even think she'd be happy to see him - but this was her creation, her mind's way of coping with yet another loss…even one of her own imagining.

If he was real, Toto would've attacked him already. As he had at the safe-house when Roan tried to kill her.

How dare he stand in front of her, half-smiling, as if he was… _delighted_ to see her. As if he had been missing the sight of her. _Just a dream_ …

He was here, smiling, looking so much like Lucas, because she wanted him there…? Because the only thing worse than her mind creating those people, those adventures, was knowing they weren't real, and missing them anyway. As if she had lost her heart, her soul. The most important parts of herself.

She had left them in Oz, as if, somehow, the tornado had ripped them from her on the way out. The way _back_ \- to consciousness.

A sort of hopeful sadness flickered across his face, and he stopped. Adjusted his posture almost subconsciously as if to make himself less threatening. At well over six foot with shoulders made to wreck doorframes, that wasn't possible.

His brows drew together, and he said softly, "Have you been dreaming of me, Dorothy?"

"You're gone and you're everywhere," she whispered hoarsely, her throat burning. Her Bill Withers CD in the truck; Aunt Em's stained fingertips; even the scarecrow standing beside her, Uncle Henry's old shirt flapping sadly in the breeze. There wasn't a place she could look without being reminded; even as she slept, she dreamed of Oz.

A touch of…hope in his eyes, as those long lashes fluttered, a carefully concealed smile turning into a bite on his lip, and though she was a foot shorter, he somehow managed to look up through those lashes at her.

"I have not been sent through the sky to bring you harm, Dorothy," he said softly, frowning at her as if trying to work something out.

"Then what?" she asked tensely, watching his every movement, the flap of his overcoat in the wind, the way the dying sun shimmered off his closely-cropped beard.

"The Witch of the West sent me," he said softly, and her mind went back to the messy-haired witch with uncanny, wild blue eyes and mesmerising gowns, full of power she felt humming in her bones sometimes. West. The only sister to mourn the witch Dorothy had murdered by omission.

East. Most merciful and stern.

West. Wicked and wild. A wounded animal. Messy, cynical, and drenched in sorrow. She _grieved_ \- she felt the loss of her sisters, twenty years after their slaughter.

A far cry from North, Glinda the self-named Good Witch. As perfect and brilliant as an ice-sculpture - and as warm as one. Creating child-witches only to send them to slaughter. She remembered the mist-shrouded meadow full of fallen girls in bloodstained smocks, saw them rise, whispering Mistress as if her nearness comforted them. As if they knew and had not a care in the world that they had been born merely to be sent to their deaths by the woman who cared nothing for them.

Roan's _wife_.

She frowned. What was he doing with…? " _West_?"

Her improbable ally. First her jailer, her torturer. A woman maddened by grief and power and memories. Fierce in her love - and devastated by her loss, and by her part in her sisters' deaths. Dorothy remembered West's grief every time the rubies of East's gauntlets glittered on her hands, even now, when a trick of the light made her hands shimmer, her stomach pinched with sorrow for the wild, sad woman.

Fleeing Glinda's keep in the North, Dorothy had followed her gut and somehow found herself with West, clear-minded through her compassion, her sense of right and wrong, her devotion to the idea of the child-witches they had unlocked inside Lucas' mind, protecting them… Defending them from their sisters' fates…

They had freed captive witches; unveiled transgender orphan Tip as the unlikely inheritor of the throne of Oz; and Dorothy had brought the Stone Giants to life.

Jane had killed the farce of a Wizard…after Dorothy had stopped Glinda and her hive of little witches.

He nodded solemnly, as thunder rumbled softly in the distance. "Why?"

"It's your mother."

"My mother?" she asked, frowning. She had none… Karen Chapman lay in the hospital, clinging to life. Dorothy hadn't been able to donate blood; they weren't a match… Her mother… The doctor. She whispered, "Jane." He nodded subtly. "What's happened to her?"

Reluctant, he still answered her. "She's been taken prisoner."

"By Glinda?" Her stomach pinched, turning to lead, hatred seeping through her veins. The white endless walls, the muffled footsteps, the drone of the little girls, and their moans, their whimpers, their broken minds and wasting bodies, cast aside like dolls Glinda had lost all interest in. And _him_ , carrying them to that chamber where the broken things were set aside, to be forgotten about, telling himself that the girls had exhausted themselves, pushed themselves too hard…when it was Glinda, forcing the girls to go beyond what she knew with absolute certainty were their limits. Because she would not deign to sully her pure white hands and reputation and destroy the Wizard herself.

He _loved_ a woman like that!

"We're not sure."

"How - ?"

"I have not seen Glinda for a good long while," he said softly, daring to look her in the eye. And she remembered, _West_ had sent him. Not Glinda. And yet… _a good long while_? She had just left -just woken up from her dreams. She had been out maybe ten minutes; it was nearly two weeks since she had ridden in the ambulance with Karen to the hospital, avoiding another twister on the horizon and debris all over the roads.

"Why would West send you here?"

"She…thought I'd be most likely able to convince you to return with me."

"You've come to take me back."

"I've come to take you home." He said it solemnly and sadly, and her stomach hurt with a sudden ache of longing.

Her lips parted, ignoring it. "I am home."

"Lucas," he said softly, raising his head to gaze across the endless fields, the hazy shimmer of sunset burning like old gold on the horizon, making the dust glow and the fields turn to copper.

"Lucas is home," Dorothy said, and she felt like she had been sucker-punched as he caught her eye, and she remembered the afternoon she had given him his name. Lucas. Lucas is home.

In Lucas' arms was the only place she had ever felt at home, as if she belonged there.

In the same house where he had then tried to murder her.

For what?

Because he loved her too much.

Because he couldn't love her _and_ have Glinda at the same time.

He had hurt her; she had stabbed him. She had _crucified_ him.

"You should have known better than to come after me," she said darkly, thunder rumbling, and stalked toward the house, realising she had likely just been having a conversation with, at best, the scarecrow, and at worst, thin-air. He wasn't here. He couldn't be here. _Just dreaming_ …

She'd wake up and realise she needed to get to the station to give her statement, and head to the hospital to check on Karen. Maybe she was in the waiting-room, had fallen into a doze?

Up the front-steps, she knocked the sides of her boots against the boot-scraper and smiled tersely at Aunt Em in the kitchen, heading for the stairs.

"Dorothy, you didn't tell me we were expecting anyone," Aunt Em said, with a kind smile, her eyes lingering beyond Dorothy, who skidded to a halt.

"I'm sorry?" she murmured, awareness prickling all over her skin despite her layers, shivering, and slowly turned, her heart in her mouth and dread curdling in her stomach. Aunt Em's shoes sounded softly on the worn hall rug and she wiped her hands on a dishcloth as she smiled at the visitor on her doorstep.

A German shepherd, and a soldier from another world, sword and all.

Dorothy stared from her aunt to the man lingering at the threshold. Aunt Em could _see_ him? If there was ever a no-nonsense person, it was Aunt Em. Diligent, hard-working and kind, Em wasn't prone to daydreaming - or in believing that Dorothy's weird dreams were trying to tell her something.

Even as she noticed his sword was missing from his belt, where it had been buckled minutes before, Dorothy felt herself drawn forward, to the dog, who was licking Aunt Em's hand, to Lucas, whose eyes never strayed from her face as Aunt Em greeted him.

"Oh, Dorothy, this must be the dog you told me about, from the back of the police-cruiser. Hello," Aunt Em smiled, completely misreading Dorothy's shock, as she turned to Lucas. "Where did you find him?"

"Quite a way from here," Lucas said, holding Dorothy's eye, and only she caught the irony. "I…was on my way here…to see Dorothy."

"Oh," Aunt Em said, and Dorothy barely smoothed the glare from her face before Em turned, her expression surprised. "You must've heard about the tornado. Picked her up and threw her around something good. Only a few scratches, though, and some bruising. It'd take more than a tornado to knock her down. She's one strong girl."

Em. Always so proud of her. The gun-shot rang through her, startling her, the back of East's head exploding… _Only a witch can kill another witch_ , Glinda had bragged on that misty battlefield. Dorothy had killed East with a gun, before she had earned the gauntlets. Her stomach cramped. Would Em still be proud of her when she learned Dorothy had tricked a woman into killing herself - even if it was in self-defence…and defence of the man looming in the doorway, looking handsome and unassuming and contrite. The man who had betrayed her, tried to murder her.

She wondered where Uncle Henry kept his shotgun.

Lucas' smile was earnest. The one she remembered.

"She's the strongest woman I have ever met," he said richly, his eyes on her. And that wasn't fair. He looked at her the way Lucas used to, before he could remember being anything but a man fuelled by protective instinct.

Dorothy was still reeling as Aunt Em invited him into their home, the German shepherd stalking close by his side, as if _he_ needed protecting. As if the dog had forgotten…

If Lucas was here, was it truly Toto? How could he not remember Lucas attacking her?

"So how do you know Dorothy?" Aunt Em asked, and Dorothy sent him a warning look.

He didn't break eye-contact even as she glared, flushed, and glanced away, clearing her throat awkwardly. "She saved my life."

"Ah, from the hospital," Aunt Em smiled knowingly. "Well, it's kind of you to visit. Dorothy's been cooped up on the farm for days, except to see a friend who wasn't so lucky during the storm. It'll do her good to have some company."

Dorothy disagreed about _this_ particular company. She'd take the dog. Maybe she'd keep him. Did animals get PTSD? Maybe she could persuade the police department to retire the German shepherd?

"I'm so sorry, I've forgotten my manners. I didn't even ask your name," Aunt Em laughed softly. His eyes caught Dorothy's sharply.

"Lucas." He said it softly, and something blistered through her, as if he had struck her. He gave a shy smile to Aunt Em, and elaborated: "Lucas Roan."

Aunt Em pottered about, making hot tea, talking in her soft, wise voice about the damage the tornado had done, ripping across the county. They were lucky the harvest had already been brought in from the fields, or that would be almost a year's income lost, income they couldn't afford to lose. She gave the dog some cold-cuts from the refrigerator that made Lucas' lips part in wonder, as Aunt Em set about making sandwiches for them all, her go-to for unfamiliar guests and awkward situations, and Em was subtle enough to pick up on things, like the body-language of the twenty-year-old she had raised since infancy. She was still rattled from Dorothy's recent brush with death; maybe she attributed Dorothy's tension to that.

Dorothy stood with her back to the corner, noticing that Lucas' eyes lingered on Aunt Em's walnut-stained fingertips as she poured the tea. But he thanked her, accepting the steaming cup, and drank without hesitation. He had to be remembering West, with her blackened fingertips and glazed eyes, erratic behaviour and outbursts.

She almost missed them.

At least life in Oz was never boring. It was always unexpected. Dorothy was a glutton for self-punishment: She almost missed it.

But it wasn't real.

Aunt Em bustled about, handed Lucas a sandwich stacked with pastrami, homemade coleslaw and Russian dressing on seeded rye, presented on her old but immaculate service with the orange poppies painted on, bringing out a big bag of _Lay's_ and some fresh fruit from the refrigerator, gave Dorothy a warm smile, and left the room to get on with some of her evening chores. At least, that was what she told them. The dog huffed, not believing her any more than Dorothy did, and settled across Lucas' feet.

"So… Lucas. I had a friend called Lucas. He died," Dorothy said sharply, accusingly.

"He didn't die," he said quietly, his eyes downcast, resting on the shining apples Aunt Em had left on the table for them. They had shared an apple as she had named him, his arms too sore to raise after being crucified…the first time… "Only lost…for a little while."

"That's what you call it?" Dorothy scoffed, startled. _Lost_ … The Lucas she had known was lost, murdered by a monster named Roan.

He raised his eyes to hers, and she saw…confusion, and sadness. Longing. Perhaps that was only what she wanted to see. Because it still _hurt_. The ghost of the Lucas she remembered, flickering beneath this Roan mask.

"Will you join me?" Lucas asked hesitantly, glancing at the chair across from him at the little table that seemed even smaller with him crowded at it. A simple invitation; but loaded with meaning.

"Maybe for a bite," Dorothy said coolly, fully prepared to bite _him_ if he tried anything. He had tried to kill her. How dare he sit there, half-smiling, trying not to look at everything unfamiliar in the old-fashioned and rather modest kitchen, the radio and the microwave and the potato-peeler on the draining-board, as if he hadn't wrapped his large hands around her all-too-delicate throat and squeezed, kept squeezing until she sank a knife into him.

As if she hadn't crucified him and left him to die at that little farmhouse of shattered illusions. She had left him for the crows, and not looked back.

Yet here he was.

Not even a rope-burn on his wrists where she had bound him.

No contrition in his eyes, only…an odd hunger that made her insides warm.

Slowly, she sank into the chair opposite him, fiddling with her fingers as she watched him try not to notice the alien-ness of the room, or at least let on that it had affected him.

Native tribesmen had water-boarded Dorothy when she fell from the sky. He got a pastrami sandwich and fresh apples.

Carefully, he pushed the plate toward her; she frowned, sighed, but took half the sandwich, and he watched her take a bite. Those long gold-tipped eyelashes fluttered, the only indication he was doing some quick thinking.

"Dorothy, you have to come back to Oz with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I just got home. Karen Chapman is unconscious in the hospital."

"Dorothy - "

The phone rang, and he jumped, startled, his hand going to his belt on instinct, finding his sword missing.

Dorothy stood and reached for the phone, glad that for the first time since meeting him, _she_ had the advantage of familiar surroundings.

"Gale house," she answered, the way she had since childhood.

" _Dorothy…she's awake_."

* * *

 **A.N.** : Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.** : Here's to hoping this series is contracted for another season, because I thoroughly enjoyed most of it! It was visually stunning, and a lovely unique reimagining of the original _Wizard of Oz_ story, a bit of fresh air after the oversaturation of _Wicked_ and the 1939 film.

* * *

 **Eye of the Storm**

 _02_

* * *

"We don't have time for this. Dorothy, do you not see the sky?"

Hastening to her truck, she pulled on a jacket and hopped into the cab as thunder rumbled and the wind whipped up. The dog jumped into the truck as soon as she opened the door, and as she cranked the key in the ignition, Lucas managed to fumble with the door handle and climbed into the passenger seat. His eyes widened as the truck roared to life, no horses necessary to blaze away from the house, churning up dust.

Karen Chapman was awake, and aware, she had been told. She ignored everything else.

"Dorothy - stop this carriage. We cannot stray from the vortex for long, West can only maintain it so long. The elements rebel in your absence, even Dr Andrews' vortex cannot sustain itself for long."

"The elements were upset by East's death, I have nothing to do with them."

"You control them, Dorothy, _you_ alone earned the gauntlets."

"Because I tricked East into shooting herself in the head. We both know I can't control the weather, what happened during the Ritual of the Elements proved that."

"No, you were drawn to Karen Chapman's coat because you felt a connection to her; there was more to be learned from your journey… Dorothy, the Ritual didn't work because you had no learning, no magical tutelage. Dorothy…you _can_ control the elements. And you must."

"I _must_ do nothing."

"You still believe me an illusion?" Lucas said softly.

"How did you know Jane Andrews is my mother?"

"She and I work together," he answered gruffly, his eyes on the scenery whipping past. There was no poppy pollen scattered along this road, only dust and muck from the fields, and there was not a crag or mountain or meadow to be seen for miles, only empty fields and flatness.

She did miss the changing scenery.

Lucas glanced at her, elaborating quietly, "With West. We fight the Beast Forever."

"We both know how good you are at killing; why would West send her finest soldier on an errand to collect me?" A muscle ticked in his jaw, the way it always did when he was under pressure; only his short beard concealed his tell, but she was too familiar with his face not to notice.

"Besides Silvie I am the only face from Oz you know, would remotely trust," Lucas said, and Dorothy took her eyes off the road to stare at him, _amused_ by how out-of-touch he was with reality. Had he chosen to forget? Taken another dose of Glinda's medicine to erase what he'd done from his mind, absolve himself of guilt, so he could go back to Glinda without a hint of doubt or regret?

"The witches would send Silvie to war but not to this world," Dorothy sniffed. Whether this was all still just part of the illusion her mind had created, with Em's acceptance of Lucas all part of it, she didn't know, but she just hoped she wasn't having an argument with an empty cab. She glared at the sword Lucas had retrieved, now resting across his knees as the dog panted in the foot-well.

"Only a witch can kill another witch, Dorothy… And Leithe serves Glinda."

"Who is Leithe?"

"It is the name Mother South gave to Silvie," Lucas said quietly, looking out of the window, frowning as they approached Lucas Memorial. With a population fewer than five-hundred, their hospital was small, rather poor, but immaculate and well-staffed. "I was the only choice."

"If you insist on staying with me, leave the sword behind," Dorothy said sharply, hoping she wasn't imagining him - ironically - as she climbed out of her truck, stalking toward the ICU. She had her staff badge and a huge shadow; Lucas didn't show how bewildered he was by his surroundings, the sharp scent of antiseptic and cleaning products, awful cafeteria food and the coppery tang of blood. He had to recognise the latter, but his beautiful eyes took in the neat wards, the nurses in their scrubs, the immaculate white doctors' coats, the sterile decorations. The ICU was limited-access but she was also staff, and headed straight for the small room where Karen Chapman was propped up on pillows, hooked up to machines that beeped softly, assisting her breathing and monitoring her heartrate and blood pressure levels.

Sleepy eyes peeked over at her as she quietly entered the room, and a hazy smile touched Karen Chapman's lips as she raised a shaky hand to remove the oxygen mask over her face. Lucas stopped abruptly at the doorway, all of the technology - the _science_ \- too unfamiliar to him. It had to be frightening, to see Karen hooked up to alien boxes that flashed and made strange sounds, pouches dangling from strange silver hooks, tubes embedded into her arms.

"Karen?" she said softly, and the smile grew.

"Dorothy," she whispered, and Dorothy drew closer, concerned that her breathing was so laboured.

"You need to keep that mask on," she said softly, and Karen smiled sleepily, pressing the mask back over her nose and mouth.

Now that she was here, and Karen was conscious, and Lucas stood behind her, a hulking reminder of her imaginary Oz…she had no idea what to say. She had sought Karen for answers and been sucked into a tornado trying to get help to save her life, had fished her lab coat from the snowy dreamscape during the Ritual of the Elements, only to discover that it was her colleague, Jane Andrews, who had given birth to her. But was any of that real?

Lucas standing in the doorway suggested, yes, it was.

Her sanity demanded it was false, that Lucas was a figment of her imagination, her psyche fractured by the trauma of the tornado.

"How are you feeling?" Dorothy asked quietly.

"Tired. Achy…you?"

"I'm okay."

"Your head."

"It's a mess," Dorothy admitted, raising a hand to the cut on her forehead. But she didn't mean the physical harm she had suffered, which was minimal: The lingering doubts over her sanity were what kept her from sleeping. Not just the dreams of Lucas' hands on her body, gentle and fervent and patient as her thighs shook and pleasure swept over her like a tidal-wave: she didn't always wake from nightmares of him trying to kill her. She didn't always wake with nausea churning in her stomach, something close to guilt, for leaving him strung up, crucified. She knew too much had happened, and she didn't know how to work it out. A shrink would lock her up and throw away the key if she told them about being swept up to a magical world through a tornado.

"Dorothy," Lucas said, with all the quiet urgency she remembered, his eyes on the window, to the darkening turbulent sky.

Karen's eyes sharpened, taking in the strange cut of Lucas' coat, his boots, the way he held himself straight and tall, shoulders back. A soldier's stance. And Dorothy glanced from Karen to Lucas, and wondered…

"Karen, this is…Lucas Roan. He's…from Oz."

For a moment, there was no reaction, as Karen stared at Lucas. Then she turned to Dorothy, removing the mask. "You know…about Oz?"

"I've been there," Dorothy admitted, and Karen started fidgeting, her heartrate rising. Dorothy kept an eye on the monitor, trying to gentle her. "When I went to get help, a tornado swept me up…"

Karen's eyes closed for a few moments, long enough for Dorothy to think she had fallen asleep as her heartrate settled. Understandable, in her circumstances. "Not by accident… Nothing is accidental in this world, or any other."

"I landed in the Munja'kins' territory in the Tribal Freelands," Dorothy said quietly, testing further.

"The Munja'kins," Karen sighed, closing her eyes, looking bitterly sad. Her eyes lingered on the cut on Dorothy's forehead. "Did they hurt you?"

"They thought I was a witch," Dorothy said, and Karen's eyes opened, something uneasy in their depths. Her fingers twitched on her oxygen mask. "They voted to banish me from their lands, rather than put me to death."

"They wouldn't recognise you now," Karen sighed, and Dorothy stared at her sad expression. Karen reached for her hand, and looped fingers with hers; her thumb tapped lightly against the five little dots tattooed onto her hand. "Had they seen these, they would have let you be…or perhaps not, if their Elders remembered who you were associated with, even as an infant."

"The Wizard," Dorothy said quietly. All lies bore a hint of truth, and if the Wizard had told her only half-truths and his own shady perspective, with a broken psyche, she guessed he had told the truth about how he, Jane Andrews and Karen Chapman had ended up in Oz.

"Frank," Karen scoffed lightly, shaking her head.

"He said you were always kind to him," Dorothy said softly.

"I was… And he betrayed us. He manipulated an experiment for clean energy, just to prove a point, his own superior intelligence…or his belief in it… He killed our colleague Roberto in the accident that took us to Oz."

"Roberto," Dorothy murmured. "The Wizard told me…he said my father was called Roberto…but he lied about everything."

"Your father wasn't Roberto," Karen smiled sadly. "When we learned you were on the way, we were surprised; Jane…was fascinated by science, it motivated her like nothing else did. But she had always enjoyed creating things. And you were the most extraordinary thing she ever made." Dorothy felt her cheeks flush, her throat constrict with emotion. Karen's sad smile was motherly, reminding her of Em, the woman who had raised her, until she was twelve years old, told Dorothy she was her mother. She wondered whether it would have mattered if Em and Henry had never told her that she was adopted. She was their daughter; she wouldn't have all this _doubt_. "Jane…did you see her?"

"I saw her. She sent me home…" Karen shook her head.

"She shouldn't have sent you back here. Even as I left you to the care of the Gales, I always knew one day you would return to Oz."

"What do you mean?"

"Dorothy, you were born in Oz. You are _of_ Oz," Karen said. "We were scientists, you know… We were experimenting how to harness manmade wind-tunnels to create clean energy… No-one could ever have imagined that _magic_ truly exists, that the energy of tornados could rip open pockets in the sky into other realms…but they do."

"You're saying that…Oz is real?"

"As real as your friend over there. As real as you and I. As real as Jane… She sent you back the same way she sent us twenty years ago. How is she?" Karen asked.

"She has been taken prisoner," Lucas said, and Dorothy glanced up sharply, glaring at him.

"By the Wizard?"

"The Wizard is dead. Jane killed him, protecting Dorothy. She freed Oz from his tyranny…" Lucas said, and Dorothy clenched her jaw. "Dorothy stopped a war between men and witches before it could begin."

"Witches? They died when the tsunami struck, along with half of the Emerald City," Karen sighed heavily. "The Citadel was high enough…we watched, as Jane powered the vortex to send us back."

"Mother South survived. A new generation of witches has been born," Lucas told her, slowly coming closer, his eyes on the machines and IV drips. "The Beast Forever has risen again." A tiny smile made the corners of Karen's lips twitch.

"The Beast Forever…" She glanced at Dorothy. "In all things natural there is a system…of checks and balances… Oz is no different. The Beast Forever…from what I understood, the stories told to us by the Munja'kins…the Beast Forever is a powerful force that wars eternally with the witches, checking their power, culling the old and fragile, leaving only the strongest and cleverest to pass on their knowledge and skills… You know about the 2004 tsunami, Dorothy?"

"The Indian Ocean tsunami that struck the day after Christmas?" Dorothy frowned, and nodded. "There were nearly two-hundred thousand casualties."

"A ripple in a pond compared to the tsunamis that struck coastal Oz," Karen grimaced, placing a hand over her side as she fidgeted in her bed, sitting up straighter. She clamped the mask over her nose and mouth, breathing deeply. "Jane and I, we were in the great spire in King Pastoria's palace with you, when it struck. Half Emerald City was wiped off the map, dozens of villages and towns across the coast, even miles inland…only the mountains stopped them… Before the tsunami, the Beast Forever was a wildfire that consumed a kingdom, and killed hundreds of witches before it was quenched. A frozen rain and snows that put Oz through an Ice Age the Munja'kins still honour with their culture high up in the mountains…"

"This time, the Beast Forever takes a physical form of his own," Lucas said quietly, his eyes lingering on Dorothy. "As he was prophesied to do so… A winged beast that calls all vile creatures to his service. He ruptures the earth and sets fire to the skies. There is only one who can stop him."

"And he has Jane," Karen said softly, gazing at Lucas, and Dorothy frowned at them both. This had to be a conspiracy, her own mind turning on her. Karen took the mask from her face. "You don't look convinced."

"She believes Oz to be a dream," Lucas said, his voice drenched in sadness, as his eyes lingered on her face with a yearning that made her body respond in spite of herself. Karen smiled softly at her.

"I would have believed the same, had it not been for you," she said warmly. " _You_ were all the proof I needed that Oz was real, when I woke up in the Gales' corn-field, you strapped to my chest. Jane sacrificed herself to send us here, where you'd be safe, until it was time."

"Time for what?" Dorothy asked, dreading the answer.

"Time for you to go home to Oz, and claim your birth-right."

"Lucas is my home," Dorothy said vehemently, her breath catching in her throat as Karen gasped, and started convulsing. A seizure. The machines started blaring, startling Lucas, and her colleagues burst into the room, telling her they needed to leave immediately. She didn't hesitate; she grabbed Lucas by the hand and dragged him out of the room. He didn't ask, didn't need to; his expression told her everything. He wanted to know what the machines were, why they made those noises, what it meant that a half-dozen people in strange clothes and white coats had descended upon Karen.

The coffee vending machine blew his mind, but Dorothy didn't notice it; she fed quarters into the machine and punched a random button, barely saw Lucas' shocked expression as a plastic cup appeared and steaming liquid filled it from an unseen spout. The scent of chocolate filled the air, and she took a scalding sip, disinterested, before passing it to Lucas.

"It's hot chocolate… It's good," she told him distractedly, pacing, watching as her colleagues rushed in and out of Karen's room. They stayed in the waiting area, mercifully empty considering it was twister season.

She eventually sat, her leg jigging, and Lucas' hand on her thigh made her body jolt, but it was so warm that she allowed it, bringing home how cold she was, how anxious, and just his proximity had always, bar one glaring exception, been utterly soothing to her. They waited like that, one of Lucas' huge hands keeping her grounded and calm as she could be, the other curled around a tiny plastic cup of cheap hot-chocolate, Dorothy doing everything in her power to sit in the waiting-room and not barge into the ICU: She knew better than to interfere, no matter how much she might regret not being there. She would only be in the way.

It was Sam who told her. Sam, who'd wanted more from her than she was prepared to give. Sam, whom she had never let close the way she had once dared to let Lucas in. Sam, who looked exhausted but not overly emotional as he told her two words, _pulmonary embolism_ , without knowing that he was telling her the woman she had thought was her mother was now dead.

A blood clot in her lungs.

The Wizard's assassins had killed her, after all.

But the Wizard was dead; and Dorothy could do nothing to avenge her. Nothing to make her _feel_ better.

"Dorothy… _Dorothy_ ," Lucas' voice was quiet but getting more urgent as he stalked after her, his long legs eating up the distance between them in no time, as she meandered toward the exit. There was no need to be here anymore; Karen was dead, and she hadn't been signed off to return to work yet.

He caught up to her at the truck, his hand wrapping around her wrist as she reached for the door-handle. "I do not know about these carriages but even I can see you are in no mind to drive," he said quietly, as the dog peered at them from inside the cab. The sky rumbled, and Lucas' pretty eyes lifted, his eyelashes fluttering in the wind.

"Lucas, let go of my arm and get in the truck if you don't want to be left here," Dorothy warned, her voice low and dangerous like he was used to. _Real_. Confirmed, by Karen…who believed Oz was real because _Dorothy_ had been with her after waking up from her own journey through a vortex.

She climbed into the truck, Lucas quiet beside her, following suit as she buckled herself in, Toto at his feet, and drove in a daze, out of Lucas proper - which seemed like a sprawling metropolis in comparison to the villages and hamlets of Oz - following the dusty roads through empty farmlands, toward home. The place where she was raised, the ever-changing fields and farmlands and Uncle Henry's tireless work-ethic, Aunt Em's painted dinner service and the old radio, and the small, neat room they had given Dorothy when Karen Chapman had appeared out of nowhere with a baby.

The winds picked up, the sky was in turmoil, black and roiling and lit with forks of lightning, glorious cloud formations that might have made her gaze in wonder if she had been watching on television from the comfort and security of her sofa. A full-blown storm punished them, the truck struggling against the winds, visibility reducing to feet in front of them as her high beams tried to push through, and Toto barked, anxious, remembering their first trip in the tornado; he whimpered and Lucas reached out a hand to scratch his ears, comforting him. The dust-clouds lifted, and Dorothy stepped on the gas, the last stretch of road familiar to her as her own reflection, the small blue house eclipsed by farming equipment and an old red barn behind it.

"Dorothy - !" Lucas blurted, his eyes widening, and nausea churned in her stomach, her heart stopping for the second time today, and they watched the eye of the tornado touch down with enough force that they could feel it.

Staring in horror, they watched the tornado obliterate everything it touched, feeding the monster, the sky boiling with lightning and churning clouds, devastating the barn.

Henry was running back to the house, and Dorothy screamed as he disappeared.

The tornado destroyed the farmhouse she had grown up in, and swept up with it the two people most important to her.

"Dorothy!"

"Put your head down, cover your head with your hands!" Dorothy screamed, over the noise of the storm, the tornado, hunching over the steering-wheel, gasping, holding her breath against the impact as the tornado struck, and with a stifled boom and the scream of metal, the truck suddenly jerked as the winds took control, the engine stuttering and groaning as they were lifted, thrown about like ragdolls, saved by their seatbelts and the metal canister they were safe inside.

 _Henry_ … The house had been destroyed, nothing more than splinters of wood and furniture and Aunt Em's painted dinner-service and her childhood athletic ribbons sucked up to be spit out wherever the tornado decided.

They were going back.

 _Oz_.

* * *

 **A.N.** : If you've stumbled across this story, please leave a review.


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N.** : This story is dedicated to _GabbyCB_ , thank you so much for your wonderful message! Here's to hoping they call for a second ten-episode season for _Emerald City_! Until then, this is what I imagine should happen!

* * *

 **Eye of the Storm**

 _03_

* * *

Sometime during the storm, their hands met, and Dorothy woke with a splitting headache and Lucas' fingers interwoven with hers, the only source of warmth as cold penetrated her lungs like icy knives.

He was panting, hard, beside her, and as he disentangled his hand from hers, Dorothy suddenly realised that the pressure in her head was from hanging upside-down. The blown-out windows showed whiteness; snow. Icicles, glittering in meagre sunlight, and barren trees. She groaned, and started fidgeting, fighting the nausea in her stomach that was quickly threatening to choke her. Toto grumbled beneath her, licking her neck and ears, unharmed.

Lucas grunted in pain as he undid his seatbelt, the arm he'd pressed to the roof of the truck - now the floor - crumpling beneath his weight.

"Toto, out," Dorothy groaned, and the dog grumbled, but did as he was told. "Lucas?"

"I'm here," he panted, rolling around, orienting himself, and she shuddered, in the cold and in pain, and in the realisation that she had seen her parents' house swept up in the tornado just before it had taken her.

"Henry," she said urgently.

"Let's get out of here first," Lucas said, with muted urgency. "Can you put your arms up, push against the roof…?" She tried, and cried out in pain as something tore at her left arm. But she still pushed, and tensed her muscles as Lucas unbuckled her seatbelt. He guided her into his arms instead of the glass-strewn roof of the cab. There was no sign of Toto, only blood-spattered snow. Was he hurt? He had been tucked under Lucas' legs.

Dorothy rested in Lucas' arms as her head thundered, pain burned in her upper-arm, and the nausea subsided, and he held onto her, arms threaded around her middle, panting in her ear, and shaking. This time wasn't like his first journey from Oz, she could tell. West's magic had to have gentled the ride; she could taste copper and managed to glance up, seeing a trickle of blood streaking his forehead from a sharp, clean cut.

Toto had dug his way out of the cab, out the broken windows, through snow two-feet deep, and Lucas followed first, taking his sword with him, the blade partly revealed from the scabbard - so it wouldn't freeze in place. Even in magical Oz, metal weapons were vulnerable to the ravages of nature, damp and rust and freezing temperatures.

"Dorothy, you can come up." Lucas' voice was muffled, but she followed it, choking on a scream of pain as she went down on her forearms to crawl through the tunnel of snow, her left arm burning with savage pain that made her arms buckle. She forced herself up, refusing to be smothered by snow, and kept going; huge hands appeared, taking hold of her under her shoulders, and pulled her the rest of the way out of the blind whiteness of snow. Behind her, a smeared trail of blood made her nausea bubble up, and she shuddered as Lucas let her down gently on the snowbank, catching their breaths.

The pain saved her life. Otherwise the cold would have seeped into her body and stolen the life from her, sapped her of all energy to just drift into the deceptive, beguiling warmth of true _cold_.

"Where are we?" she whispered, and her breath plumed above her as she cracked her eyes open. Cold light greeted her, barren branches, and ice sparkled in the air like something pure and magical and deceptively beautiful, so cold the moisture in the air had frozen. Everything was still, that breathless stillness of cold and winter and snow. Peaceful and pure.

She was reminded of Glinda, deceptively pure and cold, and anger burned in the pit of her stomach, reminding her anew of the Witch of the North and her _husband_ who lay panting beside her, his expression pained, hand clamped around his sword-hilt. She forced herself to sit up, was struck in wonder at the scene that she met.

A sea of unblemished white snow, the crystalline-blue sky - no hint of a tornado to be seen - sparkling as particles of frozen moisture glittered in the pure dazzling sunlight of winter. It was…breathtakingly beautiful.

Toto sat on the snow, panting, his red tongue lolling. When she sat up, wincing at what she guessed was whiplash, he stood and padded over to her side, licking her face and neck again, his warmth searing her cold body.

"Lucas," she murmured, wincing in pain as she glanced around. He was a slash of dark against the startling whiteness, and beyond him, she saw were huge barren trees. She panted, but pushed herself to her feet. If they didn't move now, they'd never move again. She knew she was shaking not just from the cold and shock but also from pain; she had left another smear of blood on the snow, vibrant against the pure whiteness, and she kicked snow over the blood to conceal it, not wanting to show any vulnerability, least of all in front of him.

Lucas held out an arm, preventing her from moving ahead, and glanced down at her, his expression solemn.

"Dorothy," he said quietly, and she glanced down. Her breath stole from her lungs. And not even Lucas' considerable strength could stop her flinging herself down the snowbank, to the figure sprawled there. Even as she approached, she knew there was no chance. He wouldn't have survived the tornado, let alone the impact of the fall. His body was too broken.

Common sense told her that Uncle Henry was dead.

But the irrational hope and tenacity of a daughter determined to save her dad pushed her to attempt CPR and chest-compressions, even as tears burned her face and blurred her vision, the pain in her arm forgotten as she sobbed and choked and cried for her dad to wake up. Glassy eyes gazed up at her, not a trace of pain or fear to be found.

She kept trying. She kept trying to resuscitate her Uncle Henry long after she had broken his ribs. She kept trying, even as her sight blurred from tears and red glittered on her hands - not from Henry's blood, or even her own, but the ruby gauntlets of gold filigree that glittered and shone, called upon by the innate power throbbing in her veins.

Even they were powerless to affect any change, but they glittered and shone, taunting her.

Lucas pulled her away, one arm around her waist, his nose nestled in her hair as she shook and cried and struggled against his grip. "He's gone, Dorothy… He's gone."

She shuddered and cried and buried her face in his broad chest, his warmth seeping through her chilled body, making her arm smart in pain.

"We should move," Lucas said eventually, as she panted and gasped for breath, calming herself down.

"I'm not leaving him," she choked.

"You won't have to," Lucas said ominously, and she glanced up, seeing movement at the treeline. She groaned, _Not again_.

Fur and feathers, and a good deal of both. Splashes of turquoise paint startling against the drab sameness of the animal hides. Spears and crude, lethal weapons at the ready, more suited to the cold than Lucas' sword, but he didn't draw it, and they didn't attack. Their eyes lingered on the ruby gauntlets glittering on her hands.

She recognised Ojo, even from this distance, even with her blurry eyesight; he had another scar, now, across his forehead, jagged and uglier than the first. His expression was sombre as he led the Munja'kin warriors through the snow. Surprising Dorothy, he exchanged a few words in their native language with Lucas, who answered quietly and sombrely. Ojo sighed heavily, and he said something to his men: Uncle Henry was laid out on a stretcher of saplings and animal hide, and carried before them through the snow, through the barren woods.

In a daze, Dorothy followed. Hard-working, earnest, calm Uncle Henry, who never hurt a person in his life, had taught her to drive and how to nurture, to patiently await the fruit of her labours, was dead. _Gone_. He had only ever wanted the best for her, had given up a lot to take her in as his own and raise her. Her _dad_.

Toto walked by her side, a moving space-heater as he bumped against her legs to stop her from veering from the grooves in the snow made by the men. She kept her eyes on the stretcher, on Uncle Henry's weathered, tired, now lifeless body.

The barn, the house, Uncle Henry…

How long she walked, she didn't know; but it was Lucas who drew her aside as they reached the village of animal-hide tents, the place where it had all begun, the place she had seen East on a pyre, and been tortured by Ojo as a witch who had killed the Witch of the Eastern Woods, Most Merciful and Stern. Feathers and turquoise paint, water-torture and cesspools of mirror-eyed witches… At least it was familiar, and with her world thrown off its axis with the acknowledgement of Uncle Henry's death, she needed something familiar. Toto bumped against her leg, and Lucas pressed a hand at the small of her back, as if sensing her knees were about to buckle. The tiniest gesture helped her put one foot in front of the other, as her vision started to swim and nausea built up again, her limbs heavy, sweat dotting her brow.

"Dorothy…your Aunt Em is here," Lucas said, his expression so serious that the pinching sensation in her stomach was unnecessary. The looks on the faces of the Munja'kin villagers, behind the vibrant paint, told her everything, and they were ushered into one of the larger tents, where several women were gathered around a low cot.

"Em?"

The face was a sickly ash-white and sweaty, not the fair-skinned Em she knew. Her mousy brown hair, always neatly braided away from her face, was dotted with blood and matted. She shivered on the cot in spite of furs and heavy wool blankets, and her hand shook as she tried to raise it, panting.

Uncle Henry…now Em. Dorothy fell to her knees beside the cot, burst into tears, and buried her face in Em's chest. A hand sifted through her dark curls, the way it had thousands of times before, soothing her even as Em lay dying.

"You're _okay_ ," Em choked, crying, and Dorothy cried harder. She lifted her head, clasping Em's hand in hers, her lips trembling as she tried to force herself to stop crying, and nodded. She leaned over, pressing her forehead to Em's, just wanting to share their bond one last time, their nearness, tenderly stroking her thumb against Em's cheek.

Em died as peacefully and quietly as she had lived, the same tender smile on her face that Dorothy knew by heart after seeing it for twenty years, no matter what hardships their family went through, even as she had told Dorothy that she had not given birth to her, that she belonged to another woman, another family.

Em and Henry. The house, the farm. All gone. There was nothing left to return to in Kansas. She now understood what the Wizard had meant. Return? To what life?

She collapsed, all energy draining from her as the Munja'kin villagers hummed a gentle dirge full of grief and hope and serenity and peace, her vision swimming, and someone caught her up in in strong arms before she blacked out.

* * *

Dorothy woke hissing in pain, suddenly hyper-aware of her exposed skin, and the pain in her arm. A deep sigh sounded as she twitched and thrashed and her eyes burst open, firelight burning her sore eyes as she looked around, her body aching, especially her neck and her ribs, where her exposed skin showed a flourishing blackish-purple bruise. She grimaced, panting, and fidgeted, aware that she was sweating in the heat of a small tent, a shadow hulking over her.

"Easy - easy! Dorothy, it's me, it's Lucas," a low voice said, and in spite of everything, she collapsed on the cot mounded with furs and blankets. She had been stripped to her panties - by Lucas, who had also stripped down to his undershirt and leather pants and boots, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sweating in the heat. He looked tense.

"Where'm…I clothes?" she slurred, suddenly feeling as vulnerable and shaken as that afternoon in the little house.

"Some of the women are mending them," Lucas said gently, perching on the edge of the cot. She frowned, unseeing, panting in the heat and in her pain. "I'd hoped you'd stay unconscious for a little longer."

"Why?" she asked, hissing in pain.

"I have to treat your arm," he said quietly, and she shuddered, glancing down. A wash of red, and angry, torn skin, from her outer elbow, twisting up under her arm and out the other side at her back, almost to her shoulder-blade. She could feel it, deep and angry and painful, but the bone wasn't broken; at least the fluid seeping from it was clear. She groaned, panting, and collapsed back on the cot.

"One of the Munja'kin must be a healer," she panted, refusing to give in, but too exhausted to fight him.

"They have a witch, yes. She is afraid of you. Of the power you wield with those gauntlets."

"You didn't tell her I'm useless with them as a baby with a sword?"

"Those gauntlets are the difference between life and death, and have been ever since the Witch of the East bequeathed them to you in her death."

"She didn't bequeath me anything; I murdered her," Dorothy countered. "They just appeared."

"They passed to you because her power willed it so… Magic is intuitive," Lucas told her, moving just out of her eyesight. "I'll need your help…your arm, the angle, I can't easily get to the wound."

Slowly, fighting nausea and weakness, the memory of loss in the tightness of her eyes and her tearstained cheeks, she adjusted her position on the cot, wincing at the pressure on her ribs.

And Lucas set to work, with the same kind of tender, precise nursing that she had used on him often enough. Half-delirious, grinding her teeth against the pain, she marvelled as he removed the last traces of glass with delicate tweezers cleaned in boiling water, cleaned the wound with hot water boiled with herbs and roots, daubed with some kind of base alcohol, and unfurled a leather roll full of small jars and bottles and delicate instruments she might have found at Lucas Memorial, clamps and delicate scissors, tweezers, a thermometer, something like a horn that she recognised as an antique stethoscope made of wood, fragile syringes of glass and surgical steel, and an array of curved needles. Her stomach turned, and she caught Lucas' eye.

"I have to, Dorothy. If I thought there was another way, I'd do it," Lucas told her earnestly. He turned his back, and returned with a small skin of something she might have thought was bourbon if she was anywhere but Oz, and, of all things, a sugar-cube.

Alcohol to ease the pain; sugar to combat shock.

One last thing. A stick, six-inches long, an inch thick, clamped between her teeth, as he threaded one of the curved needles with alcohol-soaked thread. The scent of witch-hazel and comfrey made her nose twitch, and her body shuddered, her eyes streaming, choking on her screams, as Lucas quietly, tenderly, but determinedly sewed her arm up, from outer elbow, adjusting her arm so he could get the tender underside. As she stifled her screams and panted, he helped her move to her right side, so he could get the awkward, tender back of her arm, the gouged laceration across her shoulder-blade. Her entire world turned into the heat of the tent, Lucas' careful, diligent care, and the pain.

"Three more," Lucas advised her, and she whimpered, but adjusted the stick between her teeth. Three…two…one… She heard the tiniest _snip_ of a delicate pair of silver scissors, and startled as a huge hand rested tenderly on her head, his thumb stroking her ear, her cheekbone, before lifting again. But not before she felt the tiny tremble in his fingers. Treating her had affected him, maybe more than him attacking her had.

Once more, Lucas doused her wounds with alcohol, a quick wash over the stitched skin, and she whimpered as it stung and smarted.

Warm water soothed her as Lucas gave her a wash-down, removing all traces of blood and sweat, the same way she had cared for him the afternoon she lifted him down from the cross at Nimbo.

Finally, something cool and sticky was brushed over her treated wound, and she contorted to watch, surprised again, as Lucas spread honey over her skin, carefully smoothing a clean bandage over the stitches, the honey a naturally antiseptic adhesive. He wrapped her upper-arm in another layer of bandages, and caught her eye only as he reached up to take the stick from between her teeth.

Perched on the side of the cot again, he helped her sit up, propping her awkwardly against the furs, so he could raise a cup of icy water to her lips and help her drink. It went down a treat, glacial and invigorating, waking her up a little. From a small pocket in the leather roll, he pulled a delicate wooden box. Opening the tiny hinged lid, she watched blearily as he counted out two tiny little white pills.

"What are those?"

He glanced up at her, so close, so like the Lucas she desperately wanted to remember. "Penicillin." It was obviously an alien word to him.

But she blinked, and parted her lips automatically when his gaze lowered to them. He popped the two pills in her mouth, and raised the wooden cup to her lips again. She gazed up at him, exhausted, in pain, but too tired to remember why she was afraid of the size and strength of the body that had brought her such intense pleasure.

"Where did you learn all that?" she asked sleepily.

He held her eye as he answered, "Your mother."

It woke her, a little, and she used her remaining strength to sit up on her own, her arm feeling alien but well-tended and wrapped up neatly in pristine bandages. She blinked the exhaustion and pain from her eyes, gazing at the leather roll of instruments, the neat wooden spools of silk thread, the jars of honey and herbs, the scissors and clamps and curved needles.

"She made this for you?"

He shook his head gently, his gaze never leaving hers. "She made it for _you_."

"Me?"

"When we met, she asked how I knew you… I told her about our time together. I told her you saved my life…that you were a healer, a _nurse_ …" Lucas said, and a smile lifted the corners of his lips, made his eyes seem gentler, younger. He looked like _her_ Lucas. "She was _proud_ , Dorothy…"

"Proud," she murmured, exhaustion creeping up on her. He offered her another, smaller cup, this one steaming, and only as she swallowed a gulp of it did she remember the unusual scent that wafted around West like a haze. Opium tea.

"Sleep, Dorothy," Lucas told her, helping her lie down comfortably, tucking the furs and blankets around her carefully. She didn't hear him tidying up, was asleep before the Munja'kin started singing a song of grief and loss, and she slept for a good while, shedding exhaustion, blissfully dreamless.

But something in her marrow told her to enjoy the dreamless abyss of deep, healing sleep: She wasn't likely to get much rest going forward.

Pain had weakened her resolve, lowered her defences.

When she woke, she would be as strong and as dangerous as she ever had been. More so: Em and Henry and Karen Chapman were dead.

All she had left in the world was a man who had tried to murder her.

* * *

 **A.N.** : Please review!


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